You have handicapped my brothers by caging their emotions inside them and feeding aggression on a gluttonous diet. Us women suffer from the too much; the men suffer from the too little. No space to cry, to love, to embrace their softness, to be vulnerable. You taught them to negate any notion that they are anything less than suffocatingly masculine with violence. I feel sometimes they are just as paralyzed as the women. I weep for the little boys who were told to stop. I hold the men who still can.
You have taught my sisters and I that we must move our words around in our mouths. Swish them to make them gentle, filter out anything that may be offensive, that may cause a back hand to strike me in the mouth. I am not your mother. Not all my words will be dipped in sugar for you to swallow easily. In fact, you will probably gag when the women untie their tongues.
I gave you too much rope to hang yourself with.
I have complied with my silence.
I have murdered my own sisters for you.
I sent so many to burn at the stake and watched idly as you tortured them.
I helped to numb you.
I told you to stop crying and man up.
I questioned your masculinity when you would show emotion.
I told you those belonged to me only.
I remained dangerously neutral when you denied that there ever was a rape. Several of them. Matter of fact, innumerable.
I acquiesced to your demands.
I never put you on trial.
I have been scared for too many millennia. I was afraid you would kill me with your bare hands.
I let myself be defined by you.
I made too many excuses for your thoughtless maniacal violence.
I still don’t understand how you could dare blame me for my femininity.
I don’t know why I believed you for so long.
Why did I let you mispronounce my name, later forgetting it?
There is this need to communicate with you that I cannot placate.
It doesn’t make sense. Why would the prey put herself so close to the predator? Why would the plaintiff keep pleading with the defendant?
It is this sick twisted love I have for you. Because you came from me. Because you cannot exist without me, and I cannot exist without you. Because I helped create you and cannot stand here blameless while you run rampant destroying everything you touch.
I must be some masochistic abused lover who likes to be beaten repeatedly by you. It must be the mother in me who keeps her arms open for her prodigal son, even though he spat in her face and kicked her when she was down.
More than angry and disgusted with you, I am overwhelmed with pity. It is sad to watch you self-destruct, and painful to be taken down with you.
All I wanted was your attention. My father went AWOL years before I was born. I just wanted you to love me. That’s why I keep throwing myself at you, since my vulva seems to be your favorite plaything. You have ripped out my eyes, gagged me voiceless and deny my right to be alive.
You asked me the other day why I won’t answer to “bitch” anymore. I must remind you that you have stolen my heat and I am too cold to warm myself. And you no longer deserve anything from me, as much as it hurts me to withhold it.
This letter is a warning, not a plea. I struggle constantly with the demons you sent to haunt me as I muster the strength to leave the dungeon you shackled me in. I can no longer give birth to any more of your godforsaken sons. My womb cannot handle any more of your evil.
That’s why I no longer answer to “whore” anymore. I am staring out at the ocean contemplating my return to where we both came. This letter is not a threat. This letter is your call for your return to your sanity. A list of grievances that call for both of us to make amends; you have a much taller order than I.
You are no longer welcomed in my bed.
Stay away from my daughters.
Throw yourself at the feet of my sisters.
Serve at the coronation of my mothers.
You are a beast that must be kept in isolation, for the damage you have created is nearly unforgivable.
When you finally recognize all of your crimes, throw yourself at the mercy of our Creator. Repent. Make amends. Hold yourself accountable.